


A Wasted Life

by unbrokenblackbird



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Friendship, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for FL4K, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Character Injury, Nonbinary Character, One Shot, Post-Canon, Snapshots, Zane doesn't do grief well, spoilers for borderlands 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbrokenblackbird/pseuds/unbrokenblackbird
Summary: When it comes to death-dealing, Zane's one of the best. But dealing WITH death?He's shite at that.
Relationships: Zane Flynt/Lilith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	A Wasted Life

**Author's Note:**

> Zane/Lilith, set post-canon, with a gap of a few months after the ending of Borderlands 3. 
> 
> This began as a plot bunny that spawned from finishing Borderlands 3 at the same time as listening to far too much Alter Bridge (look them up, they're amazing!), in particular the song 'Buried Alive'. Give it a listen and you'll see how it's influenced this story. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, please leave a comment and let me know what you like/don't like! ^_^
> 
> Edit: Thanks for the kudos! <3

It was just another job. Just another excuse to put off retirement. Another notch in his rifle. 

Lies. 

He's good at lying. Part of his job description, of course, but he's become so good at it that now it's a part of who he is. Telling the truth is so much harder than just telling another pretty lie. And yet… 

He'd told _her_ the truth. 

He'd told her everything. How his childhood had been a crash course in survival with a steep learning curve. How he'd been trained to leave all his emotions behind when on the job (and how he'd failed to do it so many times). How some days he couldn't keep a steady aim on his rifle without first knocking back a gulp from his flask. 

That's how he justifies it at first—just a nip to help him focus, keep his hands steady. Now it's so much more than that. The whiskey calms the voices inside him screaming for unattainable vengeance. It keeps him numb to the pain of his grief.

* * *

He wakes up in unfamiliar places, sometimes with the vague awareness of someone going through his pockets. Not knowing any better, they think he's just another easy target—until he pulls the gun from his boot. It's almost a reflex by now. Sometimes he hasn't even opened his eyes before he pulls the trigger. 

One night he makes the mistake of visiting one of Moxxi's bars. She doesn't say anything at first, just keeps the drinks coming with a smile, but after a while she starts asking questions. Making him remember. 

Memories hurt. 

_Feckin' coward._

* * *

He takes on work where he can—assassination, extortion and the like—because retirement no longer holds any appeal. This week he assassinates a target whose name he can’t even remember. His training gets him through, along with a hefty slice of luck. He berates himself afterwards, knowing he can’t keep relying on luck to carry him forever. One day he’s going to fuck up and end up dead himself. 

He should probably care more about that. 

Keeping his shit together long enough to get paid, he claims a corner table in a dingy, basement bar and tries to make a double-shot last more than two seconds. The glass rattles against the metal tabletop as he sets it down. He clenches his hands into fists and glares at them as if he can make them stop shaking by sheer effort of will. 

“Hey!” A chair slams back against the floor. “Is that—”

 _Shite._

He ducks below the table and flips it forward to block a hail of bullets, before darting for the door. Despite recent (and not so recent) abuse, his reflexes are still sharp and he makes it outside a split second before his pursuers. That’s all he needs...or so he thinks, until a bullet tears through his leg just above the knee. Staggering but not falling, he keeps moving, throwing out every gadget he’s got to slow them down while he empties both of his pistols into anything that moves.

* * *

He doesn’t remember much of the journey home, but he must have made it because he wakes up face-down in the hallway. It’s a miracle he even managed to close the door, let alone lock it behind him. His leg is bleeding, but the fact that he’s still alive tells him it isn’t an arterial bleed. 

_Small mercies, I suppose._

Pushing at the floor until his back is against the wall, he sits in the dark and tries unsuccessfully not to think about the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table in the kitchen, or the flask on his workbench. 

Maybe just a drop. For the pain.

* * *

_You call those stitches?_

“Shut up,” he mutters, pulling the knotted thread tight with a grimace. 

_You’re still bleedin'._

“I’m fine.” 

_Liar._

“Shut up!” He slams his hand down angrily on the floor beside him, barely feeling the impact in his numb fingers. Looking down at the messy row of stitches, he frowns and pokes at them gingerly with one finger. If the wound had been a centimeter or two lower, it would have lined up with the jagged scar he already wore just above his knee. Years ago, he hadn’t been quick enough to dodge the shrapnel spray from a grenade and a shard of metal had torn his leg open. 

He remembers telling her that story. 

His fingers clench reflexively and he winces as he accidentally prods too hard at the new stitches. Blood continues to trickle down the side of his leg, joining the dark smears and drips already decorating his floor. 

_Bandages next, boyo. Come on, you’ve done this before_.

* * *

He wakes some time later—he’s not sure how long, but it’s dark—freezing cold and confused. For a long horrible moment, he doesn’t know where he is. Opening his eyes a crack yields nothing but impenetrable darkness. He’s no longer sitting on his kitchen floor, but lying down; that’s unexpected, but it wouldn’t be the first time he had no memory of crawling onto the couch or even into bed. From the feel, he guesses it’s the couch. 

Someone is speaking softly, but it sounds a long way off and he can’t make out any words. 

_Great. Hearin’ voices now, are ye? Well, more than usual._

They sound familiar, but that’s impossible. He’s never shared this location with anyone. Not even—

_Stop._

The other voices stop too and he wonders absently if he said that out loud. _Oh well. It’s not like they’re real anyway._

He closes his eyes and shivers as the voices fade away again.

* * *

“—the _fuck_ was he thinking?”

“I don’t think he was.”

The voices are back, louder this time as they pull him from sleep. He’s still cold but he doesn’t feel as foggy or confused now. In fact, he feels more awake than he has in a long, long time. With that wakefulness comes pain, radiating from his injured leg and pounding through his head like a jackhammer. He hisses through his teeth and opens his eyes, blinking into the hazy darkness as another shiver runs through him. 

“Zane? Are you awake?” 

Close, very close, and definitely real. Adrenaline floods him and he tries to move but his limbs are too heavy. The best he can do is flinch away as a blurred shape looms out of the darkness. He can barely see their outline, let alone make out any features. Light flares suddenly and he closes his eyes with a wince as it sends fresh pain searing through his skull. 

“Turn that off!” 

He barely registers the words, as the pain dies down and he realises what he’s just seen. His vision was still hazy but he'd made out a figure beside him, their arm barely six inches from his face. Lean muscle. Tanned skin. 

Blue tattoos. 

_Lilith?_

But it can’t be. Of course it can’t. 

_She’s dead, idiot. No amount of whiskey or wishful thinkin' is gonna bring her back._

* * *

“How’d you find me?” he asks wearily. _So I can make sure it doesn’t happen again._

“You left quite a trail.” Amara glances over her shoulder. He follows her gaze to where FL4K is leaning against the wall opposite. In response, they just lay a hand on the head of the tame skag sitting at their feet. “Moxxi told us you were in town. We were worried.” 

“Checkin’ up on me, then?” He doesn’t mean to sound so belligerent, but pain and humiliation have a way of bringing out his temper. 

“If you want to put it that way.” Her tone is level and almost pleasant, but he knows her better than that. Anger and worry are simmering just below the surface. 

Moze, on the other hand, has always worn her emotions on her sleeve.“You could have _died_ , idiot! Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” 

The volume of her voice causes his headache to flare up and he closes his eyes, turning his head away with a wince. _I could really do without this right now_. 

_I could really use a_ _drink_ _right now._

“Let me get you something for the pain. We can figure the rest out later.” Amara sounds weary and he feels a sudden pang of guilt. He never meant for anyone else to shoulder the burden of his failures. “Where do you keep your meds?” 

“I…” He opens his eyes with a frown. “Look, why are you doin’ this? I can manage.” 

FL4K tilts their head to the side. “Can you even stand right now?” 

He narrows his eyes at them, as another violent shiver wracks his body. “I can take care o‘ myself,” he insists. 

Moze waves an empty whiskey bottle at him—one of the many that litter the floor—and raises her eyebrows. “You call this ‘taking care of yourself’?” 

That stings. “Don’t you feckin’ _dare_ judge me,” he growls. “We all got our ways of dealin’. Alright?” 

“This,” Amara takes the bottle from Moze and holds it up, “is not dealing. Now answer my question before I have to go snooping.” 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reminding himself that they aren’t the enemy. He might be fervently wishing they’d get the fuck out of his house, but… They’re still his friends. And they’re the only people who might actually understand, even if they sometimes have funny ways of showing it.

* * *

They make him promise to take his meds and check in with them every few days, even if it’s just an Echo-message. Knowing it’s the only way to get them all to leave, he agrees. What he _doesn’t_ agree to is every bottle of alcohol he owns being poured down the sink before they go, but they do it anyway. He knows objectively why it has to be done—he can’t even trust himself, so how on earth can they trust him?—but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. 

_It’s what she would have done._

He grits his teeth. _Yeah, but if she was here to do it then it wouldn’t be_ needed _, would it?_

For once in his life, he gets the last word. 

There are few words exchanged when they leave, aside from a repeat of his promise and a threat from all three to visit again (or worse, send him to Tannis for rehab) if he doesn’t keep up his end of the bargain. He swears he will and is surprised to find he really means it. 

He might reconsider that when the shakes start, but this time feels different. This time he has a reason to try. 

_She might be dead and gone, but I can still do somethin’ to make her proud._

_Wish me luck, Lil._


End file.
